


The Only Thing

by afogocado



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Slow Burn, college!matt and foggy, may be a slow start to some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is about the time you studied literature at Columbia. This is about the endless hours of insomnia, the late nights of drinking beer and arguing over armchair philosophy at parties, and falling asleep in confusing beds. This is about the few friends you made while getting your MA at an elite school. This is about the time you met and knew a guy named Foggy and his best friend Matt. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Multi-chaptered college Reader x Matt Murdock fic. Each chapter inspired by song introduced at beginning. Title inspired by Sufjan Stevens song. I do not own any of this (Marvel characters and song lyrics), except for the sloppy plotline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“One night to be confused  
One night to speed up truth  
We had a promise made  
Four hands and then away

Both under influence  
We had divine scent  
To know what to say”

\- José González, ‘Heartbeats’

 

1

People have always asked you what the most difficult thing about shuffling yourself from college to college was and you always have to admit that it’s honestly the moving. Not class, not the workload. There’s a strange culture shock that happens from region to region, state to state. All the particular nuances and such. You’re obviously an outsider. And it was like, no matter where you moved to, anywhere felt like it was far away. From home, from anything at all. 

And now, in this new place, you know you’ll eventually become one of these strangers, and you’re worried that you’ll seem like you’re trying too hard or not trying enough to fit in. You tell yourself that maybe you should try and not care about this at all, but it’s the easiest way to other others and alienate yourself by doing that. This isn’t something you usually fell into the habit of doing, but what the hell. It’s difficult being alone in a new place and no matter how many times you’ve done this, moving always felt like the first time you’d ever done it and you never felt more alone. The admissions board from whatever university you’d been accepted to always failed to mention to you the hell that is moving and almost always insisted on describing locations of different places to eat. Big whoop.

But now you were here, in New York, and you never thought this would be the place you’d eventually end up. The only thing different this time is that you actually already have a place to move into. Anybody will tell you the closer a house or apartment is to any campus, the more expensive it will be and to just cross it off your list. But that didn’t stop you from signing a lease of an old, but classy and full of character Victorian brick home not even a mile and a half from the buildings your English program will be held in. 

The house was too good to be true and at the time of viewing its miniscule photos online, you didn’t even care what the catch would be. You were sick enough of traveling and moving and couldn’t wait to be rooted for at least two or three years and not have to worry about packing again until after that. You’d even signed the lease electronically and sent the deposit and etcetera through PayPal. The only thing you had to worry about was moving all of your shit in by yourself. And by shit, that mostly meant your million and some odd books. 

The mailbox says Nelson/Murdock and you roll your eyes. Hopefully they aren’t some dunderheads living on the floor underneath you. You open your mailbox with your own surname etched by a shaky hand behind the glass and fish out the keys your landlord emailed you about. There were two on there: one for the main door and one to your new apartment’s door. Most of these old historic homes have been renovated into just apartments and you wonder how a person or even family could ever have lived in a whole one.

It isn’t until you have one foot holding the large front and nearly all glass door open that you realize there’s a lunatic living in the very same house. You notice how he looks like the kind of guy you’re sure you wouldn’t have met any other way apart from running into him, to be honest. He’s staring at you with annoyed and slightly wild eyes. He’s dressed in what look like comfortable clothes, but you wonder if maybe he’s a stoner. Everything about him besides his eyes look relaxed.

“Who are you?” You ask sharply, not meaning to sound awful, and regret that you do.

“Foggy Nelson. That’s my name out there,” he points vaguely toward the mailbox, “Who the hell are you?”

You give him your name while thinking, What the fuck? The guy doesn’t even have a real—“That’s not a real name!” This is blurted out with far less tact than your first question. 

Foggy Nelson puffs out his cheeks. You’d never seen a more indignant expression in all your life. It doesn’t help his cause in the slightest that he has such epic long reddish blonde hair. You can’t even be mad at this strange first meeting and you know he’s pissed that you chuckle a bit at him. 

He sputters, raising his hand palm up and all the way to his shoulder in a shrug—what gives? the hand asks—and he’s obviously trying to think of something, “[Y/N] isn’t a real name, either!”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I’m an international treasure! Loved by everyone. Name and all.”

“Where’ve you been abroad?” A new voice asks. This one is smoother, quieter, but the owner’s curiosity is loud. 

“No where,” you admit to the brunette standing behind his companion. “That’s just something I tell people to shut them up with,” you glare at Foggy and look at the guy behind him. He’s dressed in slightly loose jeans and a long sweatshirt. His brown hair has a 90s style cut and the bangs all but touch his dark sunglasses. You see the sunglasses and assume he’s that person, but then you seen the cane and it makes sense. 

“Hey, I’m just trying to ask why [Y/N]’s in our house, is all. I’m only looking out for us, Mattie.” Foggy throws an arm around Mattie’s shoulder and Mattie smiles at his friend and then at you.

“These old buildings, sometimes you have to walk through these strange doors to get to where you want to go,” he says. That’s when you realized that you’d have to cut through what is their living room to climb up the stairs to the third floor and that you’d somewhat intruded upon them. “I knew someone in undergrad who shared an apartment with a friend and you had to go through someone’s bedroom to get to the bathroom and kitchen. I figured someone would eventually move upstairs,” he cocks a thumb in the direction behind him.

“Yeah,” you don’t know what else to say. 

“Yeah,” Foggy echoes, “Well, just don’t be stealin’ none of our stuff or else!”

“Foggy, we don’t even have that much to steal,” Matt offers, resting folded hands on the top of his cane and his chin on top of his hands. His smirk enhances the mirth in his voice, and the ghost of laughter. 

It’s true. They have a measly couch and a lot of slightly smushed boxes lying about. There was nothing on the walls sans a clock whose second hand didn’t appear to work. They obviously need help and you give a small smile.

“C’mon, Matt. Our textbooks are so expensive.” Foggy’s eyebrows come to a point and raise towards his hairline for emphasis, almost as though he’s trying to say something else. 

You can’t help but laugh again. Foggy purses his lips in defeat and shakes part of his mane out of his eyes. But there’s a smile behind his tough guy front. 

“As are everyone else’s,” you offer. 

Matt grins and nods from behind Foggy. “I’m Matt, by the way,” he pushes himself up from his hands and cane and extends his arm in a general direction toward you and you grasp the hand he’s offering. He squeezes your hand slightly in a lingering way before the pads of his fingers trace a line across your palm when he slips out of your grip. 

“[Y/N].”

“You’re new here,” Matt observes. His face is more aligned with yours than earlier and it feels like he’s looking at you, can see you. “It’s your voice, your accent.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m from _____.” 

“Well, hey, we were new up here once,” Foggy offers. “Maybe we can show you around sometime.”

“I don’t need anyone to show me anything,” You lie quickly. Matt’s brow furrows and you add, “I can probably figure it out myself. I wouldn’t want to put you out. I’m already interrupting…something…?”

Matt laughs softly. It’s a gentle and near-hysterical sound, breathy and delicate. It’s the kind of laugh that’s almost like he thinks whatever anyone else says is the most brilliant and the most hilarious words uttered. It makes you chuckle through your nose. 

Everyone is quiet for a moment before Foggy says something about changing shirts before he helps you move. He insists after you decline several times. 

\-----

You and Matt are still trading swigs out of a wine bottle at 4am. Morning birds are already chirping loudly outside and it would be soon enough until the sun snuck its way in past windows and their blinds. You’re both sitting on the floor and staring into the fireplace that currently does not have a fire. Your knees are almost touching. Foggy has long been asleep on the couch, spread out, no chance in sharing a spot. 

You can tell that Matt’s thinking about something and that it’s the kind of something he won’t share with you. With anyone. So instead, you stay quiet and smile softly at him even though you know he can’t see it. Above all else, you believe in being kind to strangers and Matt Murdock hasn’t given you any reason to believe he’s been less than kind to you since you moved in this morning. Or that he’d be less than kind to you, period.

“Can’t believe you don’t know where you packed any glasses,” he said, craning his neck and twisting around as though he could see the plethora of boxes. When he settles again, his knee is against yours and he doesn’t bother moving it. You pretend to look around and settle again, pressing your knee closer into his. 

“I mean, I don’t even know if I packed any kitchen stuff,” you shrug, staring at a small box adjacent to where the both of you sat. You’re pretty sure there’s some kind of cups in there. 

He offers a grin and you take into account just how white and almost perfect his teeth are. When he grins, it looks like his top row of teeth are nearly biting into his lower lip, just like now. You feel a pit of warmth in the pit of your stomach. You search for something else on his smooth face to distract yourself. 

He already has laugh lines and crinkles around his eyes. “You smile a lot, don’t you?” You ask, now worried that may have been a weird thing to say. 

“Only when I have a reason to.” The lines on his face deepen and more of his teeth show. You feel like you could die. You stare at your knees pressed together.

You blush to the roots of your hair. “So,” you clear out your throat and take the bottle from him. “Can you tell me about where you guys come from?”

He picks at his dress sock before drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. “Well, my dad was a fighter and Foggy, he ah, he comes from a bunch of working class folks, as well,” he goes for the wine. His full, sinful red lips brush the bottle’s open neck again and he drinks deep. “This is very sweet.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and offers an almost side-ways smile. You catch yourself grinning shyly in the reflection of his dark glasses. “So, where do you come from?”

You tell him. You tell him you didn’t think you’d find other first-generation college kids at Columbia, let alone first-generation college kids in Columbia’s graduate schools. Where you’re from, most first-gens get through undergrad and get swept into a university office job or an office job somewhere downtown with fat cats or kind folks. The prestige from just an undergrad degree is usually enough and brings so much pride and honor that they don’t see a reason to give it another go. 

You glance around at the empty beer bottles. Most are Foggy’s, but you know you’d had a fair bit to drink because your face feels numb and you want to stop, but you want to put your mouth where Matt’s had been. You want just one more drink. Just a sip. When you grab for the bottle of wine again, your fingers wrap around his that are wrapped around the bottleneck. Your breath hitches in your throat and you forget to exhale. Your head is buzzing and tipsy. Your eyes find his face. You haven’t been able to steal your gaze from there. He’s no longer smiling. He looks pensive like moments before, almost puzzled. When you open your mouth to say something, his uses his other hand to brush his fingers up the length of yours resting on his other hand until his palm is resting on the top of your hand. 

“I-,” you start.

“May I touch your face?” he’s quieter than he was and he sounds tipsy too, unless you’re imaging that part. 

By the time his thumbs lightly stroke both of your cheeks, you’re sure you could die at that moment. His face is closer to yours now and moves closer still until your noses touch. He traces the length of your nose with the tip of his and one thumb moves to your chin, brushing the underside of your lower lip. His are dangerously close and you inch towards them, relishing how both your knees are pressed clumsily and tightly against his. You press a hand to his chest to steady yourself. His lips fall onto yours first in a light, whisper of a peck before a grizzly bear snore erupts from beside you as Foggy turns in his sleep…and falls off the couch. 

You and Matt break apart as though someone threw a shoe or some heavy thing at you and grin covert, slightly guilty half-smiles. 

“What time is it?” Foggy murmurs before curling into a ball, forehead pressed to one of the couch’s legs and resumes snoring. 

Matt chuckles and looks back to you, a hand flying to the back of his head, “Um, well I guess this is goodnight?”


	2. Chapter 2

Red cowards in the home of the brave.  
Rather the knaves and crooks that twist the good book.  
Peasants, paupers, pilgrims they are the same.  
They give their dollars to God but they need their pay.

Horse Feathers, ‘Finch on Saturday’

 

2

You haven’t been able to look at him for the past few days (as opposed to the massive amounts of staring from the day and night previously). The easiest thing to blame this negligence on is the fact that classes started the Monday following the Friday night you moved into the monstrous and probably haunted house. (Foggy was convinced it was haunted because of how it creaked so intensely).You spent most of the weekend with Foggy—Matt seemed to have withdrawn into himself, but Foggy said that’s just the way Matt goes sometimes. That he’s just one of those guys who enjoys his own company just as much as the company of the small friends he had. 

Friends. You were astonished that for once, you’d made more than one, basically as soon as you’d arrived into the new place you had to call home. 

You and Matt didn’t talk about the kiss the next morning. In fact, you’d had breakfast with the both of them and everything was just like it had been the evening before prior to Foggy passing out on the couch. The kitchenette in your small apartment didn’t compare to the one they had. Their’s was mostly unused. The empty boxes of pizza and Styrofoam takeaway containers was alarming and you’d felt the need to make sure they ate actual food with bright, natural colors. You’d made omelets and though the boys’ disappeared in less than five minutes, they wolfed the food down gratefully and washed it down with French-pressed coffee. 

“I still don’t believe that I fell off the couch,” Foggy shakes his head and swallows a chuckle. 

Matt bites back laughter, but there’s still mirth in his voice, “No—no, you totally did, Foggy.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and you think about the way he wiped away the wine from his sanguine lips. 

“It’s true,” you pipe up, shoveling your own breakfast into your mouth, “You’re lucky we didn’t resort to drawing dicks on you in permanent marker.”

Foggy places his hand on his chest and feigns choking back tears, “What did I do to deserve friends like you?”

Matt’s head is tilted. You noticed that last night. It looks like he’s straining the upward ear to listen to faint music, waiting to call out the name of a distant and muffled song. And he smiles to himself and what his friend has said, but it still seems like there’s something else he’s thinking of and you decided that this is enough to drive you crazy to the point that this pensive face and that slightly unsteady, unleveled head will be enough to ruin your heart and wreck your dreams. His glasses aren’t on this morning and you’d not had the time to realize how dark his eyes are and you have to force your gaze to Foggy. 

Which is easy, because you can tell that Foggy has the potential to be your sunshine on the darkest days. 

“What are you lunatics getting into today?” You ask as you stack your utensils onto your plate before Foggy collects all the dishes and gets to work on them at the sink. He ties his hair into a pony tail before grabbing the grubby sponge and squirting entirely too much liquid soap onto it. 

The sun is shining through the small window above the sink and it already looks chilly outside. You can see it illuminate the day-old scruff on Matt’s face and you have to stop yourself asking him why he doesn’t let it grow some more. 

Matt spins his coffee mug between his palms and looks towards you, smiling. 

Does he ever stop smiling? 

“I think I’m just going to enjoy the day before being shut up inside buildings all day,” he offers, draining the rest of the coffee before standing up and taking it to the sink. He tugs at the drawstrings on his solid navy hoodie, bundling the hood around his neck as though he’s freezing. 

“I need to get the rest of my books for class,” Foggy says, racking dishes and wiping his brow with his dry forearm. 

“That’s what I planned on doing,” you say, standing from the table and going over to Foggy to clap him on the shoulder in thanks. “May go on a jog first.”

“Make sure you beat the rain,” Foggy points out. 

You stare at him and raise an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks, defensively. 

“He loves the weather channel,” Matt points out. “Keeps it on…constantly. There’s always a tab on his computer, and it’s a weather channel.”

“I like to be prepared!”

“He’d totally be a storm chaser if he could.” Matt says, heading into the living room. His grey sweatpants fit him well. You really like how the ankles of them are banded above his socked feet. His hair is tousled and it looks better than the night before when he’d obviously showered and tried styling it enough to lay flat or even with some volume. 

Foggy looks at you in all seriousness and brings you out of your reverie. “I really fuckin’ would. Like that movie? Man.”

You laugh too hard at this and start towards the living room—that is, after all, where the stairs to the third floor (or, refurbished attic) are. “Well, you could absolutely pull off being Bill Pullman.”

He barks out a laugh, “Thanks, [Y/N].”

Matt is standing in front of your stairs when you finally catch up to him. 

“Excuse me,” you say quietly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he clumsily gets out of your way an bumps against the naked coat rack.   
“It’s fine. No worries, Matt.”

“I’m good at being in the way sometimes,” he chuckles softly.

You echo him because you don’t know what else to do. A silence passes and you only utter, “So.”

“So,” he agrees, resting both hands on top of his cane. 

I had a great time talking to you last night. 

I thought about your lips all night, until I fell asleep. 

I couldn’t sleep because of your fucking lips and I think we should do something about that, don’t you? 

You say none of these things and brush past him, relishing the woodsy smell he gives off. 

“Do you wear Toms?” You blurt out? 

“Me? Oh, yeah. The w-woodspice.”

You nod and go upstairs to change into some running clothes. Halfway through your jog, you don’t know if you’re restless or just trying to get away from him. It’s his stupid face and grin that you have in your mind. Even when you put your iPod on shuffle and try to clear your mind, you can only picture what it would be like if he sang along to every song with you, grinning, asking you to dance. 

Fuck. 

\-----

You don’t get home until later on that Saturday night. You decided to roam around your new surroundings, opting to go on a nice bike ride instead of hoofing it. 

You get home and chain up your bike against the house’s porch railings when a shadow breaks from around the corner. You clutch the heavy U-shaped and metallic lock in your hand, ready to start swinging if the ridiculous monster you picture in your hand suddenly appears. There are next to no street lights on this block. For whatever reason, the people who lease out the floors of these old houses feel no need to pay an extra utility bill to keep this small historical district well lit. Go figure. 

But the shadow is not a monster. Instead, it is Matt, hastily tucking a small book into the back pocket of his jeans that could totally fit better. It seemed like he was small, especially in his ‘street’ clothes. You much prefer the pajamas that…cling.

“What are you doing?” You blurt out, noticing that you’re very good at doing that around these guys. 

“I was just, ah…um.” He stutters and mumbles his way up the stoop and to you. He leans against the railing and his thigh bumps against your bike’s frame. “Did you go on a bike ride?”

“Oh, yeah. Just scoping out the area, you know.”

“I thought you didn’t need to check this place out,” he smirks playfully. 

You need to stop that. 

“I said I didn’t need to be shown around,” you counter. “Just trying to find possible study places that won’t be packed.”

“Ah.” He rests his hand on your bike seat. 

“What were you doing?” You repeat. 

“I was just out…” he seems to be reaching. “For a walk,” he finishes this lamely. This is it. One of those secret things, just like his thoughts, and you’re sure this won’t be the first time it happens. 

“Oh, well I hope you had a good one,” you offer almost as lamely as he had. 

He nods and steps past you, going to unlock the door. In his back pocket, you can make out the small book is a Bible. 

You follow him inside. You really must help them decorate. The day and even had been so beautiful that it was almost depressing to go inside to bare walls. 

“Matt, you don’t have to lie about going to church,” you say carefully. 

“I wasn’t,” he says this harshly, whipping around to look down at you, his glasses sitting low on his nose with his brown orbs peering over the top of them. “I wasn’t,” this time, he’s softer, like usual, “going to church.”

“I’m sorry, I just saw the book in your back pocket.”

He hand reaches towards his back and his fingertips touch the leather gingerly. “I wasn’t going to church. I was in confession.”

“Oh,” is all you say. You don’t know much about religion, but you know right now that this seems personal. Delicate, almost, just like his voice at times. Especially when it’s hushed. 

The dull lights overhead shine against his hair. “Look, about last night,” he brings up. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you push past him, going towards the stairs. “If you don’t want to.” You say this in a slanted way, hoping he won’t press any further. You’re not ready to talk about it, yourself. It wasn’t everyday you kissed some person you’d only just met. Even though the night had ended up being like something out of a movie. 

He takes the hint and gives up. “Are we okay, at least?” He sounds small. Just like his frame. 

Sure. I mean, if you’re fine with acting like nothing happened, that’s cool. I guess. Not like it’s the first time it’s ever happened. 

You swallow hard, realizing your throat is burning. You excuse yourself and go upstairs. 

\-----

You and Foggy spend Sunday antiquing, picking things out for both your apartments. Matt doesn’t go. He says he doesn’t feel well and you’re worried he’s avoiding you and that you’ve somehow already ruined not only your friendship, but living arrangement.

\-----

Just when you think it’s going to be busy avoiding Matt Murdock for a few days, especially using class as an example, you notice that you’re both in the same Spanish session. That you both have language requirements for your programs. That he’s really good at it. And you are not. 

When you get home that night, he’s sitting in he and Foggy’s living room, a book balanced on his lap. 

“Buenas noches?” Matt offers, his face softened in the dim light. He swats loose papers from the rest of the couch, indicating that he wants you to sit next to him. 

You lock the front door behind you and oblige. “Hey.” You don’t bother asking how he knew it was you when you walked in and before you spoke. You feel like if he told you how, it would almost be like when a magician reveals their secret. 

“Study buddies? Just for this class at least?”

You don’t want to, but you know you actually need the help. And that he would be completely impossible to avoid now. 

“Of course,” you say.

“We don’t have to now, but, you know. I’m here to talk whenever you want to, [Y/N].”

You nod mutely as he squeezes your shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

The only reason why I continue at all  
Faith in reason, I wasted my life playing dumb  
Signs and wonders: sea lion caves in the dark  
Blind faith, God’s grace, nothing else left to impart

-Sufjan Stevens, ‘The Only Thing’

 

3

“Great,” you murmur staring out the window after Spanish class ends. You’re in the hallway outside the rapidly emptying classroom when you catch the sight of the outside world through a large and impressive window.

“What is it?” A voice murmurs close to your ear. Who it belonged to had a personal space issue. But that’s something you’ve decided you mind less and less. 

You run a hand through your hair and stop at the nape of your neck, feeling the goose bumps that have surfaced. “It’s raining.”

“But you love the rain.”

“When I don’t have to walk over a mile home in it.”

People push past the both of you, frantically trying to beat the rain before a possible downpour. Someone elbows you and before you have the chance to find out who it was and scowl at them, someone else pushes Matt into your side and knocking you off balance. He steadies you by wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush to him before giving you a pat on the back, as if asking you good? 

“Come on, it’ll be fine,” Matt declares, offering his cane for you to hold while he unzips the backpack you’re wearing to dig out your rain jacket. He slips his on and takes his cane back from you so you can shrug into your own. “Might get some wet socks. That’s all. Then we’ll be home. Dry off. Hit the books. It’s only water.” He waggles his elbow against yours. “Right?”

“Right,” you offer a weak smile. You decide to suck it up and make a mental note to invest in some rain boots. 

He chuckles heartily, “That’s the spirit.” He pulls the jacket’s hood over his head, sweeping his bangs back and into the hood’s shelter. 

When you walk together, you can’t help but watch his cane in front of the both of you. You’d not walked with him in the rain yet, so you haven’t seen the way it splashes in random puddles in his path and the small smile that twists and plays on his full lips when he knows he’s made an amusing splash. 

The sidewalks are flooded enough as it is and you should have known that it was futile when you both thought to stop walking and roll up your pantlegs to save yourself from the monsoon. 

A car drives too close to the sidewalk the both of you are on, splashing dirty water over your’s and Matt’s pants. 

“Fuck!”

“Dammit!”

You look into his face and he shakes his head. 

“Let’s just keep going,” he sighs. 

“Take a shower when we get back.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe make some tea, too.”

“You know, that actually sounds great. It feels like the rain’s soaking through this jacket. And my skin. And my bones. How long have we been walking?”

“Oh, woah, what happened to Mr. Optimistic earlier?” You chide him. 

“He drowned back during that soaked drive-by.” He points behind his shoulder with his thumb.

You both laugh too hard at this. He grabs your hand and squeezes. Almost like he’s steadying himself, recovering from his bout of laughter. His hand is clammy and wet and you didn’t think yours could get any wetter. Under any other circumstance, this would be all too annoying. You squeeze back. You both let go at the same time. 

It didn’t seem like you’d get home any sooner than you did, jamming the front door key into its lock, slamming the door behind you. You both go to kick off your shoes, you with your hand resting on Matt’s shoulder as you fight with a very damp and very tight and terse shoelace know. And then you both freeze when you see Foggy’s bare ass facing you, he on the couch with an obscured young woman. 

“Oh my God!” You bite your fist to stifle hysterical laughter at this compromised sight of your friend

“Remind me to burn that couch!” Matt jokes. 

“Fuck off, Murdock! There’s a thing called discretion, you know!”

You grab Matt’s hand and pull him towards the stairs and into your apartment with Matt grumbling about how unnecessary it is for that to be happening on the couch when there’s a perfectly good bed in Foggy’s room. But he couldn’t be mad at his friend—it’d been a while since Foggy’d come home with anyone. 

“You’re a lot smarter than me,” you tell Matt, pointing at his boots after he shuts your front door and locked it behind him out of habit.

He tilts his head further to the side than it already is. “Hmm?”

“Oh. Right, sorry. Wearing those boots.”

“Ah. Yeah. Foggy told me about the rain.”

You mumble something about how you wished you would have known and Matt tells you that he’ll accompany you boot-shopping some time that week if you’d like. Apparently the area was going to be entering a rainy era. 

You take turns showering in your small bathroom. When you come back out, cleaner, but not much more dry, you see he’s already put the kettle on your kitchenette’s little stove. 

He’s sitting in front of the sealed fireplace, legs pulled up to his chest. His usually fluffy hair is still wet and he’s slicked it back from his forehead. He’s in an oversized t-shirt you got from camp so many summers ago (it’s a wonder you hadn’t lost it yet) and baggy sweatpants you kept lying around for the days you felt crampy or icky. His glasses are lying on the coffee table even though they were dried off. Also on the coffee table are two mugs with tea bags already in them.

His eyes are looking up, not quite aimed at the ceiling, but focused on some area. He looks deep in thought again and you don’t want to break the silence if he’s trying to break it first. The kettle’s whistle interrupts his thought and you go to fetch it. He tells you he doesn’t take sugar and you tell him you don’t have any in the house anyway because you don’ t take it in tea or coffee.

When you return to the rug in front of the dead fireplace, Matt finally opens up to you about that night a few weeks ago when you ‘caught’ him coming home from church. The rain begins to hammer away at the few windows in your small apartment and on the roof. It’s loud up here because you’re in the (refurbished) attic, so it sounds like the rain is in the room with you. 

A draft comes in and Matt shivers as he tells you about this certain need he has every so often to talk to someone, a priest. But it just turns out that he has a lot of things to feel sorry about. A lot. And quite often. And you try your best to convey to him that to feel like that all the time is a senseless torture. That this is a habit that can make someone sick. And you know all about being sick. And not being able to help things sometimes, so you feel guilty yourself about the advice you give him. 

“If you’re truly sorry about something and have made recompense the best you can, then stop making yourself feel sick.” You pause. “I just don’t want you going around thinking you’re a bad person, Matt. Because you’re not.”

His fingers creep over to your hand resting on your knee. “It’s just,” he says, “I feel guilty all the time. About something or the other. Even things that I don’t have a hand in.”

You don’t ask him about the things he has had a hand in. Instead, you listen. Studying for Spanish has long since been forgotten. Especially because it’s just the two of you behind a locked door. The two of you can hear giggles echoing off the bare walls from the floor below. You smile at each other. 

He pulls his hand from yours and brushes back his hair again with both of his. He leans over and pulls the couch’s throw blanket towards him. He wraps it around his shoulders and scoots close to you, sweeping you under the blanket, too. 

“The insulation up here is bad,” he offers as an explanation. 

“That line is bad,” you point out. 

“Ha.”

You lean into his shoulder and he tightens his grip around you. 

This has been going on on and off for a couple of weeks now. And every time it happens, you think you both get closer to talking about the kiss from the first night you met, but that never happens. Just how nothing ever happens on days like this. You don’t know if it means anything other than enjoying being close to one another. Hell, you and Foggy were affectionate enough. Maybe they were just affectionate guys and were like this with anyone they consider a friend. You’ve seen the two of them walking together, arms around each other’s shoulders in the chummiest way possible. 

But none of that accounts for the way he sometimes rests his hand on the back of your neck and smooths the pads of his fingers against the warm skin. Or how you pull his forearm into your lap and lazily trace your own fingers through the thick black hair up and down his arm when he’s telling you a story. And you gaze at his face, taking note of how animated his forehead and brows are, enunciating everything just as much as the tone of his voice. None of that accounts for the good night hugs where you linger on the tips of your toes and you’re cheek to cheek with him and he nuzzles his day old stubble against your smooth face, eliciting a fire in your lower stomach. A fire that doesn’t go out long after you should have been asleep. 

None of that accounts for how you both wake up entangled in one another the next morning after the rain has stopped and the chill in the room has gone. 

You’re both groggy and cling to each other’s warmth, the throw blanket long ago discarded in the wee hours of the morning. Matt sleepily lifts both your shirts up and pulls you flush to him and feel the lingering heat in his core. You can feel the thick nest of hair on his abdomen against yours. 

It’s a Saturday again and you can both afford to pretend to still be asleep a bit longer.


	4. Chapter 4

I wish we could open our eyes  
To see in all directions at the same time  
Oh what a beautiful view  
If you were never aware of what was around you

-Death Cab for Cutie, ‘Marching Bands of Manhattan

 

4

You spend all of Friday after classes with Foggy instead of finishing up a twenty to twenty-five page paper due in a postmodern literature class due after the weekend. You spent the day drinking craft beers at some new hip place and leave after a nauseating pack of yuppies flood the establishment and take up drinking cheap beers at some divey hole in the wall that he loves with all of his heart. 

He’s dressed up a bit because of some mock court exercise he’d had earlier in the morning. His slightly long blonde hair passes just a little past his shoulders, but it is slicked back from his forehead, making his face more expressive and his eyes even more lit up than they usually are. His sky blue button down is now untucked and his red tie hangs loose around his unbuttoned collar. His navy blazer is folded over his arm. 

Hazy white-blue cigarette smoke clouded over his head like a halo. The deafening crack of billiards balls in the far corner of the room drowned out the angry shouts of middle aged guys lamenting over sports gambling losses. 

“I bet people think I’m so fancy,” he grins behind a bar peanut. “Thinking I just saved the day in a court room somewhere.”

“Yeah, that you saved some poor housewife from her philandering and murderous white collar crime husband and she’s going to run away with you to Peru.”

“How did you know that’s been a fantasy of mine since childhood? Get out of my head!” 

You laugh loudly over the even louder jukebox playing U2. He mimics Bono’s singing and you mimic the Edge’s guitar playing in ‘Pride’.

“IN THE NAAAME OF LOVE, WHAT MORE IN THE NAME OF LOVE?!” Foggy is screaming, disturbing even the most intoxicated people sitting crookedly on stools. You worry you both will be barred from the place, or worse: lose your jukebox privileges. 

“Oh, my god, Foggy,” you have a sudden realization, slapping at his forearms that he’s drawn to his chest for singing emphasis after pulling his fists down from mid-air. “We need to tease your hair. You would totally look like 1980s feathery Bono.”

He slaps the table with his palm and downs the rest of the now warm beer in his glass. “This needs to happen now. I thank you kindly for these future plans. I didn’t think it was possible to make this ‘do any more beautiful and on point.” He slams his palm into your for a loud and crackling high five. Your hand stings and you grin at his beaming face.

“I will give you twenty bucks if you go to the next mock trial with Bono hair.”

He sticks out his hand. “Fuckin’-a. Deal. Let’s shake on it.”

And you do. 

\---

“I figured spending the day with you would turn into something deviant.” You don’t quite slur your words, but you wobble, steadying your eye on the back of Foggy’s head. “Like you trying to convert me into being a fellow kleptomaniac.”

“[Y/N],” Foggy swivels around on his haunches and presses his palm to his chest (he’s swaying slightly, too), as though what you said shattered his heart beyond all repair. “Please. I would never drag you to the dark side of my fancy. Think of this as a field trip.”

“A field trip into the park at night after someone’s no doubt glorious wedding.”

“To steal all the crap they left behind.”

“To steal all their crap,” you agree, nodding. “Problem: they’ve not left yet. Not all of them, at least.”

“And besides, it’s not kleptomania if this is your first time. Duh.” Foggy tuts at you. 

You don’t bother pointing out how late he is with that comeback as he presses a pair of binoculars to his eyes once more. “And furthermore,” he turns back around to continue scoping out the area, his head poking slightly over the tops of the large family of bushes you both are currently hiding behind. “I’m no klepto anyway.”

You roll your eyes at the back of his head. You knew that he wasn’t, that this is just something Foggy does from time to time and it usually isn’t without some kind of reasoning. Taking something from someone who had pissed him off, or stealing from awful people who had more than enough to begin with. You didn’t really judge him for it. In fact, you sort of view it as one of his character traits and overall a minor flaw. 

[You remember the first time you witnessed Foggy’s strange hobby. It was after the both of you finished running on and off for several miles at the gym. Where you went had a small snack bar. Said snack bar always had delicious pastries and such that no mortal could resist. You always thought it was so weird that a gym of all places literally shoved food in front of your face.

“I’m taking all of these,” he said, tugging a wadded up THANK YOU HAVE A NICE DAY bag out of the duffle bag across his shoulder

You’d never given Franklin Nelson a wilder, unhinged stare than at that moment. “What? You would steal all of these just to steal them?” You couldn’t see any other reason why he would need so many. He obviously wouldn’t be able to eat all of them in one sitting.

“I am not stealing just to steal! We need these! I need these! I just sweated all my nutrients out!” He waved the muffins and bagels in the air before shoving them in the plastic bag. “And besides, it’s just like that man who stole the bread for his starving family.”

“Jean Valjean?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I think? I mean that thing they talk about in ethics class!”

“Yes, I took ethics, as well. The Heinz Dilemma with the loaf of bread instead of medicine. Yeah, I double majored in English and Philosophy in undergrad, Foggy. I know what that is And you or Matt or I are not wanting for anything as of late. We are doing fine and not starving. So why don’t you leave these be for other people who are far needier?”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Although he ended up keeping several for himself and your all’s apartments, he gave the rest to one of the people without homes who hung around the gym. There was a shopping center near the gym complete with a grocery store and sometimes kind people took care of the others who survived around there.]

The crickets start singing in the park and you’re brought back to the present. 

“I don’t know, Foggy. It kind of feels like we’re in the middle of planning a heist or something.”

“A h—a heist?!” He laughs, deep and hearty. “Yes, the Great Heist of Mr. and Mrs. So and So’s Remaining Wedding Cake of 2006.” He grabs your shoulder and slightly shakes it in a jocular way. “I don’t think I’d ever have the patience to plan something like that. It took entirely too long to find these bushes that I was almost ready to go home like ten minutes ago.”

“Well, how are we going to do this?”

“Look,” he wipes the laughing tear mist away from the corners of his eyes and hands you the binoculars. “The key to any good ole fashioned thievery and knavery is acting like you’re supposed to be there. Just walk right up to something with the air of, hell yes this is my job. I am the getting-rid-of-cake person. Of course, I’m supposed to be here, officer. Trespassing? What’s that? It literally works every time. I’ve not been caught once.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t get caught,” you bite your lower lip. There’s a small swell of guilt in your stomach. This is the first time you’d ever done something like this. You press the binoculars up to your face and scan the surroundings. “I mean, no one’s around for now.” Most of the remaining party people are yards away taking drunken photos. 

“Exactly.” He takes the binocs back and slings them around his neck. He scoops out his majestic hair from being tangled up in their strap. “Dammit. We should’ve gotten some walkie talkies or something. That way you could stay behind with these bad boys,” the binocs, “and keep a look out and not feel so awful about these shenanigans. But it’s too late now to think about all that now because tonight we begin our life of crime together, obviously. Let’s go.”

You both all but leap out of the bushes and run towards the lone food table by an old oak tree. 

“Thank god Matt is doing so well in school,” you say gravely. “We’re going to need a lawyer after this.”

“What do you say that we Robin Hood this night up and find people in need?” He tucks his hair behind his ears and raises his eyebrows before snatching up the rest of the nearly untouched wedding cake. 

\---

 

You and Foggy walk home empty-handed, leaning into one another and stumbling over your own and each others’ feet. 

“What time is it?” He asks. “I already feel hungover. How much did we drink?”

“I don’t even know, but I totally agree about the premature hangover. I feel so urpy.”

“But still quite drunk.”

You point your finger at him with emphasis as if to say yes. Yes, that right there. Those words. 

He unlocks the door and you accidentally slam it behind you before you both kick off your shoes flying into different directions. Without words, you both pad your barefeet into Matt’s bedroom. He’s sleeping directly in the middle of his large bed, hands folded peacefully upon his chest as though in prayer. You and Foggy fall onto either side of him. The silk sheets are cool and comforting even though your head is swimming and screaming. 

“What’d you two end up doing?”

“Justice,” Foggy whispers, slightly muffled by pillows. “We don’t feel well, Matty.”

“I didn’t know there was enough beer in town to completely wreck you both,” he chuckles this out, his voice soft and dulcet. You feel yourself falling asleep in waves. 

“Meh,” Foggy grunts, swatting at his best friend’s shoulder. “Platonic snuggles? At least until the room stops spinning?”

“Platonic snuggles,” Matt agrees. “We’ve all been there.”

You wake up being Matt’s small spoon. Matt wakes up to being Foggy’s small spoon. But, you’re the small spoon who wakes up to discreet and nearly silent neck kisses and nuzzles. 

Foggy leaps up and out of bed to run to the bathroom. 

You turn to face Matt. His disheveled hair is adorable against his maroon sheets. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

“Fine. Hungry. Me need coffee,” you groan softly, covering your face with both of your hands. 

He briskly rubs his palm up and down your forearm. “Well, when you return to being human again, would you like to come to the gym with me today? There’s something I want to show you.”

You wonder what it could possibly be because Matt goes to a different gym to the one you and Foggy go to, but you agree nonetheless. You’re sure it will be interesting.


	5. Chapter 5

There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep  
Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks  
Then it walks, then it walks with my legs  
To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet

There but for the grace of God go I  
And when you kiss me, I am happy enough to die

-Florence + The Machine, ‘I’m Not Calling You a Liar’

 

5

After breakfast the next morning, Matt tells you that you’re to take the latter evening bus with him to Hell’s Kitchen, where he grew up. 

“Do you always take the bus to your hometown just to go to the gym?” You ask this when it’s time to go.

“Yeah. What did you think? That I just spent an average of four hours a day every other weekday at the gym?”

“I thought you were just far more dedicated to it all than Foggy and I.”

Matt chuckles and drops enough coins in the plastic box for both of your fare when the bus slows to scoop the both of you up at the stop. 

“Foggy got you both kicked out of that first gym for ‘carbing it up too far’ and you were dedicated enough to find another gym to have a membership at. That’s a lot. Especially for Foggy—he who could break all world records on laziness at times. I mean, put it this way. I can’t even make myself find a new gym closer to our apartment. I have to go completely out of my way three days out of the week.”

His hand brushes against each row of seats, as though counting them, before he settles into one closer to the back, sliding against the window. You sit next to him. 

“But it’s what you want to do and you’re sticking with it.”

“Yeah, like a bad habit.”

“Not all habits are bad, you know.”

He snorts air out of his nose and tilts his head to the other side. He lifts his chin and you wonder whether or not he really can’t see you through those glasses, out the corner of his eye. His chin quivers, like he’s touched by some remote thought strong enough to upset himself somehow. 

The buildings blur beyond the bus’s glass windows and you wonder what it was like for Matt to travel in a vehicle. You almost ask, but you don’t know if that would be far too invasive or rude. You wonder if it’s disconcerting in any way, especially with all the stopping and going.

He turns away from facing you and rests the side of his head against the window. You can see in the gap behind his glasses that his eyes are closed. 

“I’m glad that not too many people are on here. Sometimes it gets too cramped…and fills with interesting smells,” he says, but you’re sure that’s not what he wanted to say, what he was thinking about. 

“Oh, lovely.” You don’t know if you’re saying this to his comment or to the fact that he’s doing that secretive thing again. 

“We should be there in about forty minutes or so.”

You nod and pull a small iPod out of your hoodie pocket. You nudge his bicep with your elbow.

“Hm?” He asks, eyebrows disappearing into his bangs. 

“Hold out your hand.”

He cups his palm and offers it to you, smiling and unsure. “A surprise? For me?” You drop the bud into his hand. He runs his thumb across the soft, rubbery part and nods before gingerly putting it into his ear. “Not too loud, please,” he whispers. 

“Of course.”

When you’re both off the bus, he gently takes your elbow in his and turns you to face the other side of the street. Fogwell Gym covers the top of the building. It looks old and crumbled, almost like it shouldn’t be open anymore. It looks like the kind of place where old men sit smoking cigars at folding table and folding chairs, staring at dealt cards, jowls shaking ever so slightly. 

“Does—does Foggy’s family own this gym?”

Matt’s grin turned into a gut busting laugh that he had to double over, clutching at his abdomen. “Oh, my gosh. Wait til I tell him that. He’s gonna love that.”

“What?! I didn’t know! For all I knew, he’s descended from a long line of Nelson men whose first name is Fogwell!” You shrug, only slightly embarrassed. You hop out of the way of the busy sidewalk and follow him down the alley.

“No, dear. That’s not it. I don’t know who this gym is named after. I’ve just been coming here since I was a kid. Started off following my dad in here, doing my homework while he practiced for upcoming fights.” 

“It’s dark.”

“They don’t keep it open but a few hours of the day. Shuts down around this time every night. The night people keep the back unlocked for me.”

\---

“Your hands will probably be shaking for the rest of the night after we do this a while. Especially if you don’t eat something to settle your nerves.” He gives the heavy bag a startlingly strong hit.

“What? Is that an actual thing? Eating to stop shaking?”

“No.” Punch “Yes.” Punch. “I don’t know.” Tap, crouch, tap. His hair is sweaty and falling into his eyes. He brushes it away with an equally sweaty and hairy forearm. His shirt had ridden up at some point, but now it’s almost soaked through the back with sweat and is clinging to the lean and slowly developing muscles. “I just know I always feel better grabbing a couple of beers and a sandwich or something after.” 

One of the things that you loved the most about Matt’s vocabulary is that ‘sandwich’ could mean a literal sandwich (PB and J, turkey, meatball sub), a cheeseburger, or anything ranging from a steak dinner with veggies to an entire pound of fettuccini alfredo. Where Foggy will offer, “LET US GO FORTH AND AQUIRE SUSTENANCE!”, Matt will ask if anyone wants to get a sandwich with him and it always meant what Foggy meant. And you thought it was so sweet the way he asked. 

He spins around to face you sitting at the edge of the ring, lightly swinging your feet back and forth. His gaze misses you. It’s diagonal from your left ear and several feet above your head. “Come here, [Y/N], please.”

You do. He feels for the edge of the ring closer to him and grabs the roll of white wrap there. 

“May I have your hand?”

“Which one?”

He shrugs, showing his teeth with a sly grin. “Doesn’t matter.”

You hold your hand out, palm down. He takes it gingerly, turning it palm up. He slips the looped end of the wrap around your thumb. 

“I didn’t know that’s how you started to put it on. That there was a hole there.”

He gives a small smile, facing you still. “I’m going to turn your hand over again and when I do, could you go to make a fist, but only halfway? Don’t close them or ball the fist.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, exactly.” He rolls the wrap around your wrist several times, working not too fast, but not too slow, either. 

After the tenth roll around your wrist, he uses his index finger to feel for the part of your hand between the base of your pinkie and the side of your wrist furthest away from your thumb. He wraps from there to your palm and over the top. He does this a couple of times before feeling for the part of your hand between the base of your thumb and the opposite side of your wrist. He continues wrapping, eventually going between your fingers. He does the same for you other hand. 

“All right. On this old thing here, you want to go as hard as you can. Think of it as someone you don’t care much for. Or think about something awful or embarrassing that happened to you. And just go for it.”

You think hard. You don’t really have any enemies, per se, but you don’t want to just stand there and stare at the bag. So you think about one of the times you tripped in public and actually got laughed and pelt decent blows into the material. 

“Not bad. But anger is what should motivate you here.”

“I—I’m not really angry about anything, Matty. And I’m not stressed out in classes yet.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Well, then I’ll let you practice some punches just for the sake of self defense should something happen—heaven forbid.”

“I thought that’s what I’m doing.”

“Well, I’ll help you with the form of your blows.”

“The form of my blows.” Now it’s your turn for a smirk to play on your lips.

“Yes,” the ‘s’ draws out as he holds his hands up, palms facing you. “Come after me.”

And you do. And he speeds up. 

“I don’t want my body falling apart,” he says. “That’s why I try staying in shape.” He puffs out air, speeding up even more so.

“You keep going this hard,” you punch and miss, “and it probably will.” Punch, jab, “Because it’s not like you’re exercising a regular amount.” Crouch, jab. “You’re hitting these things like you want them to shatter your hand beyond repair.” You don’t miss the next two. “Like you need a reason to not be able to use your hands anymore.”

“Maybe that’s what I want, after all.” He evades you so well, in step and tongue.

“I don’t think that it is.” You don’t miss the next one.

“Well, you aren’t in my head so it’s really not your place to say anything.”

“I think that it is.” This next one was hard. Its slap against his flesh echoed off the walls. “That’s what friends are for, Matty.” Puff, huff, punch. “We’re supposed to take care of one another whenever we forget to take care of ourselves.” Whap!

“And is that what we are? Friends?” 

Now you really do believe he can see you. You lower your hands and straighten bent knees.

“I—I thought so?” You don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but right now, you’re not sure about anything. 

“Hm,” is all he utters. “You’re lying.” He drops his hands, too.

“How could you have any idea about that? Regardless if it’s true or not?”

“I,” his throat works, grabbing at nothing. “I know what’s in your heart.” 

You bite back a bitter and harsh laugh. “Matt Murdock: Great Knower concerning matters of the heart…and everything else.”

“Stop. Please.”

“What? It’s true, isn’t it? You just know it all.”

He doesn’t say anything. “I don’t know it all. That’s what my dad thought.” He puts his hands back up and so do you. “My dad. He was a good man. A good dad. I know some people—maybe even most people—thought he was a bum when he started losing all the time. But we were never without a home and I was never hungry. And he always made sure I hit the books.”

You don’t say anything and try and match his side-to-side steps and before you know it, you’re sweating pretty hard, too. He cups your fist in his palm for the last light punch you throw. He steps lightly, steering you backwards and into the heavy bag. 

“I’m sorry to snap.”

“You should be. I’m never that rude to you.”

You bump against the bag lightly and it bumps you back and into Matt. He draws your hand in his closer to his face and brings your palm to his mouth where he uses his teeth to bite the wrap loose. He untangles a loop, face on yours before switching teeth for hands. This is fast, as is the other one. He weaves your fingers in between his on both hands and gently pins your arms above your head against the bag. He falls into you and when you sway back into him, you catch his lips with yours. His grip tightens around your hands as he deepens this kiss. You swing away from him and when you come back, he grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him, but the momentum from the bag makes him stumble backwards and against the ring. 

He takes your face into his hands and his thumbs explore your cheeks, under your eyes, your earlobes, your throat and neck. His fervent kisses leave his full lips redder than ever. You pull away to nip at his day old stubble. He groans into you, pulling you closer. 

“I know, Matt,” you mutter in his ear, nipping and licking at the shell. 

“Matthew,” he’s hoarse. “Call me Matthew, please.”

You do and he stiffens, groans your name long, dragging it out. 

\---

The ride home is silent, sans iPod, even. 

When you follow him into his bedroom, you’re both sure whatever’s about to happen won’t be platonic.


	6. Chapter 6

Drown me  
You make my heart beat like the rain  
Surround me  
Hold me deep beneath your waves

-Borns, ‘Electric Love’

 

 

6

You’re almost surprised that you and Matt didn’t ‘consummate’ your relationship the night after the gym, even though that’s such a dumb word. But also a word that Foggy uses from time to time when describing his romantic escapades. The stipulation that nobody is in a ‘real’ relationship unless there’s full-on penetrative intercourse is ridiculous. You’ve always thought this and so did Matt—he tells you so that night. 

It is obviously not the only way to show someone you care about them. Is what he’d said. 

There was also a senseless panic in the morning that because sex didn’t happened, then that meant he didn’t want to have anything to do with you when every fiber of your being screamed in opposition to this awful and self destructive thought. 

“Look, we don’t have to do this just because we’re in here,” he gestured around his room. “It makes me happy that you’re here at all, like this.”

He was on his back with his arm encircled around your waist, your face against his chest, your hand sneaking up his shirt to rest on his hairy belly. His other hand lay over yours, on top of his shirt’s fabric. 

You pull your head back to look at him and he licks his lips nervously, his tongue dancing around the bottom one, then the top one. He lets out a shaky chuckle, “What?”

“Nothing.” You settle back into its previous spot. 

He tightens his grip around you. “What?”

“Nothing!” You’re laughing which makes him start laughing. You prop yourself up on your elbow and gaze down at him. 

He pulls you down toward him, pressing his scratchy cheek against your smooth one, cupping the back of your head in his hand. He scrunches his fingers through your hair before letting it settle on the back of your neck. “You like laughing at me, don’t you.”

“Only when you’re nervous and adorable.”

“Nervous? Me? Not nervous.” He moves his hand from your neck to your hip and gently pushes you onto your back and holds himself hovering above you.

He presses his lips against yours softly, teasing, dragging his lower lip against yours after the kiss, rubbing a shaky palm against your lower abdomen’s flushed skin. “Y-you’re nervous.” The breath he exhales from his small laugh enters your mouth. You gasp and move against him. 

You lock your arms around his neck and pull him closer. He obliges, slowly lowering himself until he’s on top of you.

“Am I crushing you?” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, ears.

“N-no.” You run your hands through his hair, gripping and tugging softly every so often. It’s slightly greasy and you love it like that. 

He scoops his arms under your lower back, hugs you to his chest, and in one swift movement, switches positions with you. He tugs at your thighs, helping your straddle him. You feel him stiffen beneath you and flush. He gives an embarrassed smile and turns his face away from yours. You lower your face to his, trace your nose against his jaw before kissing along his neck. He gives a gasping sigh and grips the tops of your thighs, close to your hips. He turns his face towards yours again, your noses touching. 

“[Y/N],” he mumbles against your lips, his eyes closed.

“Yes?” You whisper this and don’t know if he heard it or not. 

“I—” 

“What is it, Matthew?”

His kisses you deeply, fervently, squeezing at you tight enough that it could almost hurt if you weren’t already drowning in him. 

\--- 

You and Matt come home from separate libraries Thursday night to find Foggy standing in the foyer, looking guilty.

“We have a dog now,” he blurts, all of it sounding like one word. “So, that happened.” 

“Where did you get it?” You ask, eyes widening at the sight of the blob of what looks like a bulldog slobbering over its own paw shoved in its mouth.

“Outside?” Foggy squints his eyes and shrugs his shoulders up to his neck, almost wincing, as though preparing for a good hearty slap on the arm. 

“Outside?” Matt echoes, eyebrows rising, forehead wrinkles more prominent than ever before.

“Does he have any tags or anything?” You ask, bending down to let the dog sniff your hand. 

It waddles over and licks your wrist. It plops down on its behind and whines at Matt who firmly plants both his hands on the top of his cane.

“Yeah, but no address.” Foggy sighs. “He’s got his most recent rabies shot, probably others, too. Good looking dog. I’m sure he’s taken care of. Registered with the city and everything.”

“Oh, no. No address at all?” You ask, staring down at the medium sized and slobbering thing now scooting its butt across the rug.

“Stop it!” Foggy yells. Then with a sheepish grin tells you and Matt, “His name is Scoots.”

“He tag says Roscoe,” you reply, standing from your previous crouching position. 

“Yes, well, he’s our dog now and he shall henceforth be known only as Scoots Nelson-Murdock-[Y/N]. It’s very New Age, the triple surname. Please don’t start confusing him with his given name, [Y/N].”

You tell Foggy that you won’t do that. 

“Hey, why don’t we just call him Foggy Junior?” Matt suggests innocently, albeit after a long beat. 

You laugh, mumbling late and Foggy flips him the bird. 

“He’s doing something rude, isn’t he?” Matt asks, pointing in Foggy’s general direction.

“Of course not!” You say indignantly. “Good ole’ Foggy, you know.”

“Hm, yes. Good ole’ Foggy.” Foggy takes a tremendous bow. “Whatever. I’ll catch you nerds later. I’m taking Scoots on a walk.”

“We aren’t keeping him,” Matt says seriously. “You know there’s a family somewhere missing him right now. Right?”

“No, I know that. That’s why I’m putting these bad boys up everywhere.” He flashes a stack of Lost Dog flyers he’s just printed out and stuffed into his messenger bag along with a roll of duct-tape. “Flyers. With our phone numbers and what-not.”

“That’s very sweet, Foggy.” You take the one he’s waving in your face to check it out. “Maybe I can hang some up in the English and Humanities buildings. Maybe even the library over that way.”

“That’d be a good idea—I already put up the earlier batch all around the law library…until I was asked to leave.”

“Asked kindly, no doubt,” Matt says gravely. 

You snort at the sarcasm—there isn’t a day goes by that either or both of them don’t complain about the librarian there.

“Surely, not all of the librarians there are awful,” you hoped aloud during one of their dual rants, both all but screaming over one another while trying to recount a horrid run in with a salty old lady. All of the librarians at your library were lovely. They always scowled at you whenever you repeated this. 

“But they are, though!” Foggy throws his hands up in the air. “I’m tellin’ ya, [Y/N], someone must shit in their cereal every morning. And in their lunch. And their dinner. That’s why they’re extra pissed by the time it’s time to wake up and have a honking, heaping bowl of shit flakes and raisins again!”

“Eating cereal with only raisins in it everyday would be depressing,” Matt frowns, “I’d probably be prone to shitty attitude attacks, if I were them.”

Foggy makes a Do you see what I’m talking about now?! face and gesture at you and you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

“This comes from the grown man who will only eat the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms before throwing the rest away.” You say this, poking Matt in the arm.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Matt flushes violently, swatting at your hand.

“No,” Foggy speaks up, “She’s right. It’s very wasteful, Matty. Even Scoots disapproves of your awful and criminal breakfast habit.”

“Exactly. Thank you.” You crouch down to pet the dog. “And thank you, Scoots.”

“Look, maybe if they made just the marshmallows in a box, I wouldn’t be such an awful person in your eyes.”

“Ppft, you’d find something else to be a degenerate about,” Foggy says, blowing his hair out of his face and tugging at the dog’s leash. “Come along, Scoots. We have a date.”

Scoots goes, slobbering the whole way to the front door.   
“We’re stopping by a dog park to see if any lonely ladies and their lonely dogs need a play date.” Foggy all but slams the door on his way out.

\---

One week (a week of endlessly hanging WE FOUND YOUR LOST DOG posters all over campus and the surrounding neighborhoods) later, and Scoots was still living at the house. Sometimes he would brave the stairs to your third floor attic apartment and throw himself down on your rug to watch you do homework, drooling over the open face pages of your literary theory text book. Other times he would sit on top of said book and demand you take a PET ME—I’M YOUR ADORABLE DOGGY breaks. 

And in that week, you and Foggy would find Matt shuffling his socked feet around the house, mumbling under his breath about how none of you are responsible enough to take care of a dog that chews on power cords and eats the trash. You each had to lie to professors about being sick just to stay home with Scoots. Foggy was sure the dog was acting all goofy like that because he was in a new environment. Matt would retort with something along the lines of needing to try harder at finding Scoots’ family.

“Yeah, well, until that happens, we’re all he’s got, Matty!” Foggy declares one night, sharing a bag of chips with Scoots, watching Say Yes to the Dress. Foggy claims he watches it for the plot; Scoots watches it for the drama. 

But one night, you creep down the stairs with the intent of visiting Matt in his bedroom when you stop, stock still and stare, slack jawed at the sight on the couch. Matt Murdock bathed in the glow of late night TV infomercials and Scoots snuggled up on his chest, his thick dog head shoved between the crook of Matt’s armpit and the couch’s armrest. 

“You love this dog!” You accuse him. 

“Yeah, I do.” He admits, patting Scoots’ coat. 

“Why do you act like you hate him?”

“Because we don’t need a dog and I figured he’d be gone one way or another.”

\---

And he was right. Another week later, you come home to a red and puffy eyed Foggy slumped in an armchair.

“Scoots’ dad came for him today.”

You felt a pang of sadness, but had been preparing yourself all week for his inevitable loss, especially after what Matt said during a Magic Bullet commercial. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Foggy agrees in a grumble. “Stupid dog. Making me care about his stupid face.” He wipes at his eyes with his shirt sleeve and pushes himself off the chair. “I’m gonna do some research.”

You concur, dragging yourself upstairs to work on a paper. When you need a break, you hop downstairs, hoping one of the guys is around for a much-needed distraction. 

Matt and Foggy are sitting on the couch. Foggy has his laptop balanced on his lap and is describing pictures of dogs for sale on Craigslist to Matt and judging whether or not they look like Scoots.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And on the 7th chapter, I said, "Let there be smut."

The things that I thought would last  
Well they're fading, they're fading  
The feelings I used to have  
They're changing, they're changing

\- Vance Joy, ‘Wasted Time’

 

7

They say that the things we remember the most in our lives are the first and last experiences we have with someone or something. When you catch yourself thinking about the time you knew a guy named Foggy Nelson and his best friend Matt Murdock, you are always brought to the first night spent medium tipsy in a new house with new friends; the first kiss you and a near stranger shared with which ignited a strange and new passion. 

But sometimes, you let yourself think about more than that: cooking breakfast for grown men who didn’t know how to feed themselves; the first dog you ever owned outside of a family pet; the first time you went on a Robin Hood-esque thieving spree; the first time you walked miles home in a down pour; the first time you had your hands taped up in order to square up; and the first time you ever made love with a man. 

Only on the most rare of occasions do you allow yourself to drift into the furthest reaches of your mind to dust off memories concerning the subject of Matt Murdock. In retrospect, it’s easy to see that there was a darkness living inside of him and you wondered how you never picked up on it any stronger than just the faint inklings that you thought there may have been something wrong. It was something you’re sure not even Foggy came near to touching or getting close enough to it to figure out what exactly it was and what exactly it did to and meant to Matt. 

You and Foggy talked a lot about Matt and how mysterious he could be whenever the latter wasn’t home. You felt gossipy when you did, but it was always with his best interest in mind. Foggy always reassured you that if Matt was really going through something or was in trouble with something, that he would absolutely come to one or the both of you. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case and you wondered if Foggy agreed with you somewhere inside of his chest.

In fact, you hadn’t thought much about Matt or Foggy since starting your professing appointment at a small campus in Vermont, until a late autumn day when campus mail slipped a letter under your office door. The small envelope’s return address beheld the initials F.N. above none other than Hell’s Kitchen, New York. You kept the unopened letter pinned up to the bulletin board next to your framed degrees and would swivel in your chair to face it from time to time, debating internally whether or not to open it. 

You took it home with you and decided to open it when you had enough wine for two. 

[Y/N], 

Look, I know it’s been like six years since we’ve talked period, but I just want to ask you to please keep reading this. I’ll understand if you pitch it before finishing this sentence, which is why the next one is written so big. MATT IS IN TROUBLE. I know you didn’t really part with him on the best terms, but I think it’s important that you come to Hells Kitchen (or I can come up there) to hear me out. He and I aren’t even talking right now. 

“Woah,” you mutter to yourself, squinting your eyes and furrowing your brow. Matt and Foggy aren’t talking to each other? The hell is that? You shift your attention back to the letter. 

You were right back then. He’d been up to something. Almost every night. And he lied to us. And continued lying to me. Maybe this is what we get for talking about him all the time behind his back, but I don’t think it’s very fair that this time karma’s like ooh Foggy, I’m gonna fuck up life as you knowww ittt! I just need to talk to someone about this and since you’re so removed from what’s been going on down here, I think you’re my best bet. My only hope, really. Shut up, I know I’m still a nerd. Please say you’ll meet up with me. 

His phone number was scrawled out above his sloppy signature of Franklin Nelson. You wonder if he did that (used ‘Franklin’), as if you could ever forget his nickname or wouldn’t have known who the letter’s author was if he’d only signed with ‘Foggy’. Just because you chose not to think about him from time to time didn’t mean you’d forgotten who he was entirely. You resist the urge of balling up the letter and throwing it into the fireplace’s flames keeping your cozy office warm. 

You lay your palm over the letter’s surface and instead stare into the flames, remembering the first fireplace you’d ever had.

\---

Foggy is away for the weekend so you and Matt had the entire house to yourselves. Much of Friday evening and Saturday you both spend responsibly with packing for the upcoming Winter Break. By Saturday evening, you get together for tea and listen to records. You remember the last time you and Matt were sprawled out in front of the small, closed up fireplace in your small apartment above theirs. He’d been wearing some of your clothes because you all had gotten caught out in the rain. But this time was different. Your teas sat, completely lukewarm from being forgotten and absolutely untouched. Matt brought some of the throw pillows from the couch onto the floor for you both to lay on.

You’d put down a fleece blanket between the fireplace and the low down coffee table and watched him in the dim lights as he leaned over the record player, placing the needle back into its resting nook when the David Bowie album playing quietly was finished. He shakes his hair away from his eyes after taking his glasses off and laying them gently next to the record player. He feels for one of the pillows before lying sideways, facing you, but his eyes resting somewhere between your nose and forehead. 

The fall semester was over and soon he’d be going home with Foggy for the holidays and he asked you in desperation to come along with them, but you told him (and Foggy later) that you had to go home and see your own family even though you never really got along. 

“It makes me sad to think about them,” you tell him. “Like, they’re getting older and doing nothing with the rest of their lives except get angry at all this stuff. They just find reasons to sit and stew all day. I think me being there reminds them when they had something else going on in their life besides the latter part of middle age.”

“I can understand that. You need to see them while you can. But if things get bad on that end, please come and see us. Foggy’s family is great and the food is always excellent, if anything.”

You sigh, “You’ve always known that the way to my heart is through my stomach.”

He smiles and scoots closer to you, lifting your shirt and kissing you on the stomach. When he doesn’t pull away, you lazily brush his hair from his forehead away with a tentative hand. He rests his hand on your hip, slowly sliding it up your side and then traces your ribs with his thumb. Your grip tightens in his locks and you stiffen. He kisses a trail up to where his thumb lay before grazing the skin with his nose. He inhales with a somewhat shaky breath and exhales the nervousness away. He pushes your shirt up to your chest, leaving it covered and runs his fingers over your lower back before tracing the tip of his tongue from the waistband of your flannel pajama bottoms to your lower sternum. He slips his fingertips beneath the elastic of your bottoms and fold them forward, running the tip of his nose then lips then tongue across the softness underneath. Your hands work through his hair again, “Matthew,” you don’t know if he can even hear you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice isn’t stable, either, and you can tell he’s trying to be assertive, show you that he knows what he’s doing. 

“Y-yes, Matthew.” You brush your fingers against his stubbled cheek. 

He kisses you once more on your lower abdomen before yanking your bottoms off in one clumsy, yet fluid movement, leaving you in your pastel colored boy-cut panties. He runs a shaking hand up the inside of your thigh and you gasp at his warmth. He squeezes you there gently before showering your lower abdomen again. He pulls the top of your panties toward him to kiss and lap at the areas above your mound. You squirm slightly from beneath him. He lets go of the fabric and moves to placing kisses on you through your panties. 

He uses his thumb to stroke you through them and you can feel how wet they already are from the inside. He removes his thumb and you whimper from disappointment, but it is soon replace with him lapping at you through the fabric. You grip at the blanket and can no longer tell if your panties are wet from you or from him. Then his fingers are back, but only to pull the fabric aside, just enough to expose your sex partially. You shake at his warm breath and gasp loudly when he takes you into his mouth, sucking and tugging gently at the sensitive skin before letting you go and then running his tongue along before pulling the fabric all the way to the side and then swirling his tongue against you, inside of you. He places the pad of his thumb against your opening to add a delicious pressure, but never presses inside. 

“Matt,” you gasp, placing a hand in his hair again, “s-stop, please.”

He pulls back immediately, as though burned. You prop yourself on you elbows and look at him. You can see his own pants tented. He looks confused, his gaze at your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

You don’t answer him and instead crawl closer to him, pushing him onto his own back before straddling him and pressing your lips against his flushed ones. You relish that you can taste yourself on his mouth. When you pull back to look at him, it drives you wild to see how his tongue darts out to taste you and your kiss on his lips. You devour his lips and he frantically pushes his pants and boxers down past his knees. When you settle on his lap again you position yourself against him, but not enough to guide him inside of you. He hums softly against your lips, cradling the back of your head in his palm.

“I love you,” he whispers deftly against your parted lips before you pull his shirt over his head. He sits up, circling his arm around your waist to keep you balanced deliciously on him, your knees on either side of his waist. 

He unbuttons your shirt with nimble fingers. He brushes your shirt off you, kissing both of your shoulders gingerly and playfully nipping at the base of your neck as he unhooks your bra and lets it fall to the floor. You wrap your legs around him and he positions his swollen and pulsing member against your heat, pressing into you enough to create friction against your clit. He takes your face in both his hands, kissing you deeply, expertly, like this is what he’s supposed to spend his life doing. 

“Do you love me?” He murmurs against your ear, kissing softly, laying you down on your back. 

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Is this okay?” He kisses you gently on the neck. “Are you still okay?”

“For once in your life, Matthew, shut up,” you buck your hips against his, showing him that yes, you are ready for fucks sake.

He aligns himself against you and kisses you once, then presses his forehead against yours before pushing inside you. You gasp and arch your back to get used to the feeling of his size and just how hot his heat is. He scoops a strong arm under your arched lower back and pulls you flush against him. You wrap your arms around his neck. His other hand grabs your ass and he pulls you clumsily into his lap again. His back bumps into the coffee table, he settles, and thrusts into you gently from below, panting with ragged, short breaths in your ear, his warm breath against your neck. You meet each of his thrusts, surprising yourself with how well you move together, telling yourself that of course you should, you’ve wanted this for so long, and you don’t know if you’re thinking these words or letting them slip out with hitched gasps and quiet moans pressed into his ear. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groans into your hair, gripping your hips. “Kiss me, [Y/N]. Please.”

You press your nose against his before meeting his lips, catching his lower one between yours, drawing the kiss out. “Oh, Matthew,” you mutter against his parted lips when you pull away. 

His head drops back and he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing helplessly. He drops his hand between your legs, delicately rolling your clit between his thumb and forefinger, working you into a frenzy until you feel the heat in your stomach let go and you bite his shoulder, stifling yourself from crying out and you feel yourself come around him. 

He’s kissing at your ear again and he’s muttering words quickly, quietly, and it sounds like a prayer with an undertone, mantra of ‘I love you, I fucking love you’ before pulling away from you and releasing himself on your lower belly. He turns his head to you, his gaze right beneath your eye, above your cheek, pulls you to his chest, and holds you tight. 

\---

You and Matt don’t break up immediately after the first time you had sex. Instead, you continue to have passionate nights quite often, and then he graduates from law school. He and Foggy move away to an internship and Matt just stops reaching out to you at some point when life gets busy. He stops answering your calls whenever you can find the time to make a call late at night. You get so busy in your PhD program once your coursework is over and you have to focus on writing a publishable dissertation and passing your comps. You never hear from Foggy again which bothers you because you really liked him so much and you wonder if Matt’s told him to leave you alone, as well. 

It wasn’t like Foggy, but you’re sure he was only protecting himself, especially if they really were going into a partnership together. It gets to the point where you don’t even know what you would say to them if you could get a hold of them. It’s kind of like when you forget to call home to your parents or family for long periods of time and it’s awkward because you don’t know what to say while everyone yells at each other for not calling sooner. You can’t really blame the phenomenon of growing out of your friends. It happens all the time. You delete their phone numbers sometime before your dissertation defense.

\---

You decide to take a chance to leave Vermont for a long weekend and go see your old friend. 

“This is Matt,” Foggy presses a newspaper in your hand when you meet him at the coffee shop he gave you directions to over the phone once you let him know you arrived in Hell’s Kitchen. 

You look at the newspaper and you see a black and white photo of a man dressed in black with a mask on. 

Foggy explains, “This is what he does now. I think he’s always done this. When we were in school. When he was always gone and we would wonder where he went off to. He’s claiming he’s never told anyone because he was trying to protect all of us.”

You look at the paper once more before dropping it and throwing your arms around Foggy’s neck. “I knew it was something. I’m going to kick both your asses for dropping off the face of the earth. And then we’re getting drinks.”

“Do your worst and I’ll do my best to drink to forget.”

“I’m going to kill Matt Murdock.”

“Well, if it’ll make you kill him any less, he used to talk about you all the time.”

“Did he?” You raise your eyebrows at him. 

“Yeah. He’d always be like, ‘Remember the first night we met [Y/N]? When she moved in?”

You don’t tell Foggy you thought about that sometimes. Instead, you think about what it’s going to be like to see Matt for the first time in your professional and actual adult lives.


End file.
